Page 33 of Love from Pretty Beach

I t was the next day. The day before had started off with the kitchen in disarray; dust sheets, piles of saucepans, dishes all over the show and chaos pretty much at the fore.

But after Darby, Penny and Jack had spent the day working like the clappers, to say that the kitchen was a thousand per cent improved was an understatement.

Darby had set up her phone in the corner of the kitchen and done a time-lapse of what had taken place with a view to popping the whole thing on her channel as a makeover video.

However, she didn’t need a video to tell her what a good job they had done.

It was right there in front of her eyes.

What was looking back at her? The shell of an old pine kitchen and the beginnings of a very nice one.

In the space where the three double carcasses had lived for decades, there was now, running from left to right, a long, large expanse of open shelving.

Underneath that, a line of hooks ready to hold Darby’s favourite cooking bits and bobs was in situ.

Directly below that, Jack had attached a long, mounted magnetic knife holder for Darby’s vast collection of kitchen knives and utensils.

Looking to the left of the kitchen, where another ugly pine cupboard with a built-in country-style shelf underneath sat, things had improved immensely, too.

Now relieved of its doors, the cupboard had been rehoused and repainted as open shelving.

On the other side, Jack had completely dismantled a base unit and worktop and slotted in a butcher-top workbench Darby had found in the garage when she’d first moved in.

She’d stripped it back to its natural wood, painted the bottom of it in a Farrow herbs and spices which she’d actually had in her old house, packets of out-of-date icing sugar, many cans of beans, so many different blends of tea that she’d be able to open a shop and the same in fancy pastes from India.

But overall, it had been a case of sorting, clearing, sectioning and cleaning.

'Fenugreek seeds,' she read from one label.

'When did I buy fenugreek seeds? What even is fenugreek?

And why do I have three jars of cumin but no coriander?

' Laughing, she gestured to a section of the pantry she’d named the Olive Oil Shelf.

‘How many bottles of olive oil does one woman need?’ she laughed to the camera.

‘So far I have counted eleven.’ She popped each olive oil in front of the camera, each one more and more exotic and expensive-looking than the last. ‘The next time anybody ever sees me near an olive oil section of a supermarket or fancy artisan grocers, tell me to step away as quickly as possible. A new bottle of olive oil will not and cannot change my life.’

Darby then picked up a couple of jars of chilli oil and held them in front of her phone and waited for the camera to focus.

‘Ditto the chilli oil. Evidently, I am a one-woman chilli-eating machine. Do not ever let me buy chilli if you see me out in the wild.’ Darby laughed again, smiled, and continued to sort through the pantry, wondering whether or not the content would be of interest to anybody or whether it would be next-level boring.

It was hardly riveting, but somehow cathartic, and she decided that she loved seeing before-and-afters, and anyway, as with everything with her channel, she didn’t really have a lot to lose.

It was mostly a bit of fun that perhaps might turn into something in the future.

Mostly, as she continued to make videos, she was becoming more and more aware that her new hobby had done a very good job of saving her mental health.

Lifting a stack of cream-coloured bowls from a box at her feet, she held them up to the camera, then placed them on the open shelf against the freshly painted wall.

'These are from that pottery place in Stoke-on-Trent that I absolutely should not have gone into but did anyway.

They were having a sale, which is dangerous for someone like me who thinks sale prices mean you're actually saving money rather than spending it. '

Next, a collection of vintage glass storage jars was shown to the camera.

There was something deeply satisfying about seeing everything laid out properly and creating order from the chaos that had dominated her kitchen for the previous five years.

'These are for pasta and rice and all those things you're supposed to decant but never actually do.

Look how lovely they are all lined up like this.

Very aspirational. Very much the sort of person who has their life together, which we all know I absolutely do not. '

The magnetic knife strip held her large collection of knives and she added her favourite wooden spoons, some she’d had since before her girls were born and jumbled them into a large Cornishware jug.

Hanging a set of copper measuring cups that had been her mum's underneath them, she was well pleased with herself. ‘They look gorgeous hanging there. These used to be my mum’s and whenever I use them, I can hear her talking to me. Gosh, she’s been gone such a long time now.

She would have loved this house. I still miss her so much. '

Next came her collection of vintage bread boards. ‘Many of these have also been with me for years. I cannot bear to part with any of them. Do you get attached to things, too? Maybe it’s just me who is weird about things like jugs and wooden spoons.’

Standing back to look at the open shelving that had replaced the horrible pine cupboards, she smiled.

It now held plates and bowls accumulated over years of charity shop finds and impulse purchases.

Arranged by colour from all the whites to some deep blue plates from a Portuguese market, next to a pile of green bowls from a National Trust shop.

Nestled next to them a stack of terracotta dishes from a camping holiday in Spain when the children had been small.

'I know you're supposed to have matching crockery like a proper grown-up, but this is just me and they sort of tie in together.’ She stepped back to survey her work.

'I've never been able to resist a pretty plate, even when I absolutely don't need another one.

Each one reminds me of somewhere or something, which is probably a bit daft, but there you are. I love the memories.'

With the camera still running, Darby added her collection of vintage tea towels, arranged her cast iron pans on the shelf, a large wooden bowl for fruit, a marble mortar and pestle that she’d bought in Italy and lugged home in her hand luggage, much to the amusement of security.

A blue glass vase that sometimes held flowers but more often held wooden spatulas and whisks.

'The thing about organising is that it makes you feel like you've got control over something, even when everything else feels completely chaotic.

Like if I can just get these things lined up properly, somehow the rest of my life might fall into place, too.

At least, it sounds good. Tomorrow I'll probably cook something and mess it all up again,' she admitted to the camera.

'But for now, just for this moment, it looks exactly how I always imagined it could look.

Which is something, isn't it? Even if it doesn't last.'

As she was peering at her phone, looking at her footage, a message notification flashed up.

Archie: What are you up to?

Darby: Nothing much. I’m just pottering at home.

Archie: Fancy a coffee?

Darby: Love one.

Archie: Half an hour suit?

Darby: Yep.